Storm Chasers
by Retrolex
Summary: The war is over. The Lost Light blew up. Above a far-flung planet an Autobot appears, burned, brain damaged, and babbling meteorological nonsense. Meanwhile, the crew of the Decepticon ship 'Slag Disturber' are dismayed to discover that after seven-hundred years of wasting time, they might actually have to complete their mission after all.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE:  
**

It took a long time for the white glare to fade from the station's forward monitor.

Awed silence. And then:

"Wow."

The robot who had spoken licked his lips. "Um. _Wow_."

"Okay, I don't think any of us saw that coming," said another. He looked to the Autobot beside him, who stood with his mouth agape. "Did we?"

His friend shut his mouth and shakily lifted his datapad. He thumbed back a screen. "Uh, let's see. Successful and uneventful launch... twelve to one odds. Unexpected delay... four to one. Prowl-related cancellation... six to one. Mechanical failure, five to one. Does that count? How about... quantum irregularity displaces Lost Light in space-time? Who the hell put that one in? Three-point-four million to one?! Oh, here we go! The ship explodes before it can leave Cybertron's orbit... three to one odds?! You people are sick!"

The comm operator sank back in his seat. He stared up at the monitor and mumbled, "Can't believe it blew up."

"It didn't explode," said a voice from the back of the bridge.

"I can," grumbled the flight engineer. "A Neutral ship like that, put back online after a fast turnaround and minimal inspection? It was probably held together by spit and Drift's poetry."

_"Glorious Lost Light_  
_Questing for the sacred Knights_  
_Awesumah powah," _intoned a red robot gravely, his hand to his chest.

"Redshift, shut up."

The last of the light disappeared from the monitor, tiny twinkling hotspots of debris extinguishing themselves within the black void of the Cybertronian night sky. The Autobots gathered about the station bridge solemnly watched them wink out one by one. The broadcast announcer had gone silent. Even the festive lights and streamers festooning the bridge seemed to hang a little more limply. An 'L' fell off of the string of sparkly letters that spelt out 'CONGRATULATIONS, LOST LIGHT.'

"Well, that's it for Rodimus then," said the first Autobot to have spoken. His voice echoed across the bridge. "He lived fast and died... all over the place."

"Hey!" said another. "Watch your mouth."

"What? It's true. We all saw it."

"He's not dead," said the voice from the back of the bridge.

"There could be survivors!"

"Survivors? In _that_? Very small ones, maybe."

"Knew this was a bad idea," said the comm operator gloomily. "This whole Knights of Cybertron thing. Had a feeling it would end in tears."

"This is awful. All those poor sparks on board. And Whirl."

An Autobot crumpled an empty engex flask on his forehead and threw it at a bin. It missed and bounced off a console, which lit up in red and beeped.

"They never should have tried to leave in the first place," he grumbled. "Bailing out like that, just because things were getting a little hot back home. Four million years of war and you can't handle criticism when it's over? Let's run off instead and have adventures. That'll show them! And now they're all dead. Nice move, Rodimus."

"They're not dead."

The voice from the back was loud this time. The Autobots standing beneath the monitor stopped drinking and looked around.

"Why do you say that, skip?" said Redshift.

The big blue and grey and white robot seated at the rear command chair stirred a circuit-shot into his drink and eyed the monitor.

"Because the ship didn't blow up," he said.

The rest of the Autobots exchanged leery glances. Redshift said, "Uh, something sure did, boss."

"Yes, but it wasn't the ship itself. An engine, perhaps."

"Why do you say that?"

"There's no debris."

As one, the Autobots looked back up at the monitor. The unseen cameraman zoomed in erratically on the spot where the great white starship had been poised before the fireball had consumed it. The picture blurred in and out of focus while the announcer babbled excitedly in the background. Sure enough, the expanding ring of sparkling particulates was mostly composed of dust and smoke, within which tiny crumbs of metal glittered like diamonds.

"I'll be damned," said an Autobot. "You're right. He's right!"

"Then what happened to it?"

"Ha!"

Redshift hooted and pointed triumphantly at the Autobot beside him. He swivelled around to point at the rest of the room. "I told you! Quantum irregularity! Displaced in space-time! Blam! Three-point-four million to one odds! I own you! I own all of you!"

The flight engineer scowled and turned to the commander. "Seriously though, Northwest- what do you think happened to the ship?"

"I don't know," said Northwest. "Not yet. But if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say-"

"Excuse me, sir," said the comm operator. He was bent over his station, his face lit up in blue. "Just picked up something on the short-range scanners. Wasn't there a minute ago. Bearing three-four-zero, about seven thousand feet below us."

"On screen."

Cybertron's empty skyline disappeared, replaced with an image of the blue and green planet spinning beneath the orbital station. Clouds seethed across the lower atmosphere, huge rotating masses of them. Northwest saw the massive tropical hurricane that his scientists were currently studying churning in the distance, tracking eastbound. From that altitude it seemed to crawl across the planet's surface like a whirling anemone. The scientists had already dubbed it 'Huffer'.

Drifting above the cyclone was a dark speck. He squinted at it.

"Magnify," he said.

The image on the screen momentarily blurred as the camera lenses swooped over and refocused on the target. It floated, suspended within its own glittering nebula of debris.

Another moment of stunned silence fell over the bridge.

"Holy," an Autobot breathed. "Is that...?"

Northwest set down his drink and stood up.

"Alert Medical," he said. "Tell Rivet to head to the docking bay. Redshift, you go hunt down Turbulence and meet us there. Bring rope."

* * *

Space.

He was in space.

Spaaaace.

Wheeling gently, his own wreckage spiralling out behind him in a long and twinkling plume. Black space and stars above him, a planet below, haloed in blue. White clouds sweeping across its oceans. His burnt-out sensors flickered, sampled nitrogen, argon and water vapour, before finally sputtering out. Good-bye, sensors, he thought giddily. Hello, atmospheric freefall.

As he exhaustedly studied the planet beneath him he reflected that at least his journey was over. Ha. Journey. That implied that he had been travelling somewhere, instead of relentlessly blurring in and out of existence across the galaxy. Not even a chance to scream between jumps. For an indeterminable time his life had been measured in nothing more than fractions of a second, billions of them.

God, he hurt. He could feel it now that gravity was tugging at his wings, his frame. He hurt all over, a searing ache that went all the way to his core. Primus, why did he hurt so badly.

Hang on. Who the hell was Primus?

As he wondered at these new mysteries he became gradually aware of two points of light in the distance. They did not remain stationary, like stars, but veered towards him, growing larger and more brilliant by the minute. A flicker, and then they became two spacefaring aircraft, light from the solar sun shining white off their wings.

"Hey, buddy," said one when they cut their engines and drifted alongside him, manoeuvering by thrusters alone. "Wow. Look at you. It looks like someone threw an asshole party all over your face. Need a friendly lift?"

He tried to reply, but passed out instead.

* * *

"_Bring rope_," grumbled Turbulence's voice in his internal comm. "_Bring_ rope. _Seriously_?"

Northwest ignored him. He floated in zero-gravity, his arms crossed, and watched the two jets as they wrangled the unconscious shuttle mag-locked between them into the station's docking bay. The shuttle was in sorry shape. Blackened, seared, its armour plating melted into lumpy seams and its paint stripped away. Holy hell. It looked as if had been solar flare surfing, and missed the wave.

Above his head the giant bay doors were already telescoping shut. Northwest waited until they had sealed away the last glimpse of space before radioing to all Autobots present, "_Re-establish gravity. All hands brace yourselves_."

He landed on his feet when the bay gravity generator kicked in. Dirt showered back to the floor. Behind him he heard the thuds as the rest of the Autobots in the bay did likewise, save for one unlucky robot who fell flat onto his back with a curse. Northwest sighed. Some putz always did that.

The two jets bobbed gently, their anti-grav propulsers keeping them buoyant as their magnaclamps lowered the injured shuttle to the floor. A puddle of dark fluid immediately seeped out from underneath it.

Northwest opened his mouth to shout an order but Rivet had already darted forward, his medkit in hand. He knelt down beside the shuttle while the two jets backed away and transformed.

"Looks like severe heat damage," said the medic as Northwest stepped close, followed by a crowd of curious idlers. "Hard to say how extensive. Won't know for certain until I get him to the medbay and crack him open. Holy crap! Radiation levels scanning off the charts as well. Everybody stay back, unless you want all your nuts to shrivel off."

"Crack," mumbled the shuttle. "Crack. Crack! Lightning! Thunder! Lots of thunder!"

"Are you _awake_?" said Rivet. He groped through his kit. "Because in this condition you really shouldn't be."

"Even his badge has melted off," said Northwest.

"Yes. Don't think I hadn't noticed that."

"_Cyclones!_" raved the shuttle. "Big, big cyclones! Continental depressions! Plasma flares! Upper winds at eighteen thousand feet showing four hundred at two-seven-zero gusting five-fifty! Cells topping at ninety-thousand feet! Lapse rate twenty-two degrees per thousand feet! That's crazy!"

"What is he on about?" said Redshift from a safe distance away.

"No clue," said Rivet. He patted the shuttle on the wing. "We'll ask him when he wakes up again. Okay pal, it's naptime for you. Bring that lev-bed closer! Let's pump him with an anti-rad flush and take him back to Med. Lights out, friend."

Vip. Fade to black.

* * *

After that, things got a little more peaceful.

No more blurring. No more strange moons and suns and planets strobing past him like he was trapped in a galactic slideshow. No more wordless shrieking. Just darkness. Quiet, unyielding darkness. Ahh. So nice.

During it, he blipped on-line only once. His optics wavered back into focus, just in time to see the green medic lean back and pull his hand away from the side of his head.

"There, he's conscious again," said the medic gruffly. "Ask your questions fast, and then bugger off. It isn't good for his neural net to be under this kind of strain at this stage of the rebuild."

Rebuild? _Rebuild? _The robot peered down the length of his prone body. Holy hell. He was a skeleton.

A bare structure, all gleaming struts and welded seams and internal bracing wrapped around a humming spark case. Ahhh. His mind reeled. This couldn't be good for his psyche.

"Over here," said another voice. He looked to the left and saw a second figure standing over him, beside a medical armature bedecked in lights and mysterious tubes of liquid. A big blue and grey robot, with a brimmed helm and a no-nonsense frown on his white face.

"Is he safe to approach now?" he said.

"Yeah. I've managed to purge most of the radiation from his systems. He might glow in the dark for a while, but his readings are down to less apocalyptic levels. You can talk to him."

The big robot nodded. "I am Cap- Commander Northwest, of the Autobot orbital research station _Hyades_," he said. "Do you understand me?"

A soft whirr-_kkt _came out of the robot's mouth when he tried to joke, 'no'.

"Crap," said Rivet. "Sorry, boss. Forgot to tell you: vocal systems are still off-line."

"Huh. Optics work fine, though?"

"Eh? Yeah, they're functioning on safety now."

"Good enough. Okay, stranger. This is how we're going to do this. One blink for 'yes', two blinks for 'no'. Got it?"

Now this was up his alley. The robot lay still and blinked once.

"Beautiful. Are you in any pain right now?"

One blink. He didn't feel bad, all things considering. Kinda hazy.

"That's good. I'm glad. Uh, yes, Rivet?"

"One quick question," said Rivet. "Gotta check basic motor functions. Can you move your fingers at all?"

It took effort, but he managed a weak thumbs-up.

The medic laughed. "Basic enough for me."

"Back on track," said Northwest. "Do you know _Hyades_?"

Two blinks.

"How about the planet Arae-1?"

Two blinks.

"Hmm. Are you an Autobot?"

Shrug.

"Are you a _Decepticon_?"

Frown.

Northwest and Rivet exchanged annoyed glances. Then Northwest said, "Let's try this again. One blink for Autobot, two blinks for Decepticon, and three blinks for Neutral. There? There. That should just about cover it."

Four blinks.

"Uh oh," said Rivet.

"Do you even subscribe to a particular faction newsletter?" said Northwest in exasperation.

Rivet laid a hand on his arm. "Hold on, boss. Let me try something. Hey, buddy. Do you even know what side of the war you're on...?"

Two blinks.

"Really?"

One blink.

"Oh. Uh oh."

Northwest eyed him. "Do you know something I don't, Rivet?"

"Um. Maybe? Yes, this- actually, this confirms a suspicion I had when I began to strip this fellow apart. Um. Hmm. Oh dear."

His fuel pump thumping harder now, the robot tried to express a calm and rational concern by giving the medic a bug-eyed glare. Rivet gnawed on the edge of his thumb and ignored him.

"'Oh dear'?" said Northwest. He stepped away from the bedside. "Oh dear, what? Rivet..."

"Yeah, yeah," said Rivet with a wave. "Look- come into my office and I'll explain in detail. I've got some scans I need to show you. This is going to require illustrated aid."

"What is?"

"Shush! Not here! Sorry, pal." The medic reached for the side of the robot's head again, who wondered if it was worth trying to bite him. "Back to sleeper mode for you. You need all the beauty rest you can get."

The robot blipped off-line before he could whirr-_kkt_ a protest.

* * *

[VIP! NEW SCENE:]

[A DARK, BLURRY INTERIOR. VIOLET LIGHTS PULSE IN THE BACKGROUND LIKE A CONSTELLATION OF STARS.]

VOICE: Come on... where's the focus on this thing...

[SLOWLY, THE SCENE CLEARS, REVEALING THE TINY BRIDGE OF A CRAMPED AND POORLY LIT SHIP. BANKS OF TWINKLING AVIONICS CROWD THE WALLS AND CEILING. GLOWING MULTI-FUNCTION DISPLAYS LINE THE INSTRUMENT PANEL. THROUGH THE NARROW FORWARD SCREEN IS A VIEW OF SPACE.]

VOICE: Aha! That did it.

[THE CAMERA REVOLVES AWAY FROM THE VIEW SCREEN UNTIL A ROBOT'S FACE LOPSIDEDLY ENTERS THE FRAME. IT IS A BLACK ROBOT WITH A GREY FACE AND RED OPTICS. HE SMILES.]

ROBOT: Ha! This is Prang's Log, number zero-zero-zero-zero-zero... one. I am Prang, mighty warrior and cunning Acquisitions Officer of the Decepticon starship _Slag Disturber_.

[A PAUSE.]

PRANG: And filmographer. I'm also a filmographer. Look me up.

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Anyway, Shoktrop has threatened to pawn my camera for fuel credits, so I figured I'd better use it now before she gets itchy. This is the first log documenting our ongoing seven-hundred year retrieval mission. Right now you might be wondering, 'Hey Prang. Seven hundred years and you've only started a daily log now? What is up with that?'

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Shut the hell up. That is what's up with that.

[THE CAMERA TURNS AWAY FROM HIS FACE AND POINTS BACK TO THE FORWARD SCREEN.]

PRANG: Not long ago we received a data packet from home with the news that the war is over, and that we Decepticons had more or less lost. It came as something of a shock. That is putting it mildly. Shoktrop flew into a rage and jumped out of the ship and kicked a satellite in half. We had to leave the orbit of the planet Ethelon fairly quickly after that.

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Okay, that was sort of hilarious. But still. A _shock_. The war is over? I can't believe it. Neverrr. Long live Decepticon rule! Hail Megatron blah blah etcetera. See how I shake my fist in emphatic denial.

[A BLACK FIST ENTERS THE FRAME AND SHAKES ITSELF.]

PRANG: Rawr.

[THE FIST WITHDRAWS. THE CAMERA TURNS AWAY FROM THE FRONT OF THE BRIDGE AND BEGINS TO JERKILY 'WALK' TOWARDS A SEALED DOOR AT THE BACK. THE DOOR HISSES OPEN. PRANG CONTINUES TO TALK AS HE WALKS DOWN THE DARK AND NARROW CORRIDOR ON THE OTHER SIDE.]

PRANG: Anyway, what I'm getting at is that with the Decepticon army falling apart and High Command more or less in shambles, I figure it's safe for us to risk sticking our heads back up onto radar by documenting our mission. And the truth of it is this: it has been an epic, epic failure. Seven hundred years and we still haven't found what Theoretical Weapons Development sent us out to retrieve on pain of death? Yeah, we pretty much botched that job.

[THE CAMERA STOPS AT A SIDE DOOR. PRANG REACHES OUT AND HITS A BUTTON ON A PANEL. THE DOOR SLIDES OPEN.]

PRANG: Nonetheless, spirits remain high here on board the _Disturber_, never mind the fact that at this very moment the Decepticon Justice Division may well be hunting us down with the intent to molest our innards with horrific implements of torture. Hi Redout!

[BEHIND THE DOOR IS A SMALL AND GLOOMY LAB. A LIT COMPUTER TERMINAL AND WORK STATION SITS IN ONE CORNER. HOLOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTS SHIMMER AGAINST THE WALLS.]

PRANG: This is Redout, our Navigator and Comm Officer. He probes things. Mostly the depths of space.

[A TALL GREY AND RED ROBOT SWIVELS AWAY FROM THE TERMINAL AND REGARDS THE CAMERA WITH IRRITATION. HE HOLDS A DATAPAD IN ONE HAND.]

REDOUT: Why do you have to say things like 'molest' and 'probe' when you stroll into my office.

PRANG: Smile, sourspark. You've just become a recurring character on Prang's Logs. Wave to the audience. Show them your high spirits. Shooowww themmm.

REDOUT: Good god. I see a red light on that thing. Are you actually recording with it? Because I was under the impression that Shoktrop intended to sell it for fuel once we limp this miserable hunk of scrap to the nearest depot.

PRANG: Nobody is selling my camera! Besides, the Decepticon heirarchy is in the process of a slow collapse as we speak. Soon Shoktrop won't hold any sort of rank whatsoever. She won't be able to order me to give up my things for pawn any more.

REDOUT: Oho. I dare you to say that to her face. Oh, please. Say it to her face. With the camera on.

PRANG: Pfft! Subject change. How goes the probigating? Figured out a way to get us to that depot on empty tanks yet?

[REDOUT TURNS BACK TO HIS COMPUTER.]

REDOUT: Actually, yes, I have. I've found a way to increase the efficiency of the fuel injectors to the point that we could extend our range by enough of a margin that we should be able to reach the vector 314 spaceway. I won't go into details, since they'd only go over your head anyway.

PRANG: Ouch. My feelings.

[THE CAMERA WHEELS AROUND AGAIN UNTIL PRANG'S FACE IS BACK IN THE SHOT.]

PRANG: I should mention, fact fans, that the _Disturber _has been operating without a flight engineer since that planet with all the atmospheric gutsucker eels. The big ones, with the electroteeth? Yeah. Those. That was a messy and baffling affair.

REDOUT: [IN THE BACKGROUND] Why did we even go to that planet?

PRANG: Residual TWD data signature, friend. Another blip. Couldn't pass that over.

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK AROUND AGAIN.]

PRANG: Anyway, ever since then Redout has sort of become our flight engineer as well. He is a mech of many talents.

REDOUT: And many ulcerous diodes.

PRANG: Ah, quitcher bitchin'. So, we crawl to vector 314. What happens after that?

REDOUT: We beg and barter with our dwindling credits until we find a passing ship willing to let us maglock onto it and hitch a ride to the fuel depot. Then we beg and barter some more, possibly while on our knees.

PRANG: Shock. Shock and disgust. Decepticons do nothing on our knees! I could have phrased that better.

REDOUT: Creditless failures like us do.

PRANG: I have to say, I don't like the sound of this beg and barter business. I mean, I'm okay with it personally, but is this something that is going to make Shoktrop kill herself?

REDOUT: It's fine. Everything will be fine. She'll be fine. You'll see.

PRANG: That is hardly a convincing argument, but okay.

[WITHOUT WARNING, A RED LIGHT BEGINS TO STROBE ON THE WALL.]

REDOUT: Uh oh. Shoktrop's back.

PRANG: That's not fair. Why does she get a red blinky when she returns to the ship after a patrol? I want a red blinky too.

REDOUT: Shh! Shut up!

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK TO PRANG'S FACE. OPTICS DARTING, HE SPEAKS IN A HUSHED VOICE.]

PRANG: Okay, here's the thing with Shoktrop. To be fair, she's actually a fairly decent leader and tolerable to be around like, sixty-percent of the time.

REDOUT: Yeah. It's the other forty-percent that's the real kicker.

[THE CAMERA PANS BACK TO REDOUT.]

PRANG: So why do we put up with her again?

REDOUT: Because she is an officer, and we are loyal soldiers of the Decepticon army.

PRANG: True, true.

[PAUSE.]

REDOUT: There's also the drill hands.

PRANG: Riiight, right.

[FOOTSTEPS RUMBLE IN THE HALL, GROWING LOUDER BY THE MINUTE. OBJECTS RATTLE IN THE LAB. REDOUT GRABS A STACK OF DATAPADS BEFORE THEY FALL OFF HIS TERMINAL. WITHOUT WARNING, THE LAB DOOR FLIES OPEN. A LARGE YELLOW AND BLACK ROBOT BARRELS THROUGH IT. LIKE THE OTHERS IT IS A FLIER, WITH WINGS AND FINS ON ITS BACK.]

SHOKTROP: PRANG! REDOUT! TO ME!

PRANG: Hey, boss.

SHOKTROP: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HUDDLED IN REDOUT'S OFFICE?

PRANG: Hey, boss!

SHOKTROP: WHAT?!

PRANG: Indoor voice!

SHOKTROP: WHAT? Oh.

[SHOKTROP DEFLATES AND LOOKS AROUND HERSELF. WHEN SHE SPEAKS IT IS IN A MORE NORMAL TONE.]

SHOKTROP: Why aren't you two at your stations in the bridge?

REDOUT: I've been working out a way to alter the fuel injectors.

PRANG: I've... just been bored to tears, honestly.

SHOKTROP: WELL, GET THE HELL BACK UP THERE! Long-range sensors have picked up another TWD signature on a planet one week from here!

[PRANG AND REDOUT GROAN.]

PRANG: Boss, we've been chasing TWD signatures across this stupid galaxy for years. For seven hundred years, specifically. They're just blips.

REDOUT: Could be irregularities in the scanners themselves.

PRANG: We rush to investigate those blips, have tragic adventures, and discover that nothing is there. I think it's about time we just shucked it all in.

SHOKTROP: YOU FOOLS. This time the signature is remaining steady.

PRANG: Beg pardon?

SHOKTROP: It is not a blip.

REDOUT: Seriously?

SHOKTROP: YES, SERIOUSLY.

REDOUT: Wow.

PRANG: I don't know what to think about that.

SHOKTROP: THINK OF A WAY TO GET YOURSELF BACK TO YOUR STATIONS AND PREPARE FOR FLIGHT BEFORE-

PRANG: Boss! Volume!

SHOKTROP: - before I march you up there at handpoint! MOVE. NOW.

[THE CAMERA JOSTLES AS PRANG AND REDOUT ELBOW EACH OTHER IN THEIR HASTE TO EXIT THE LAB. SHOKTROP SLAPS THEM OUT.]

REDOUT: Ow! Sir, might I remind you that we still need to reach the fuel depot-

SHOKTROP: I KNOW THAT. We get fuel first. And then we MAN OUR STATIONS, YOU SCRAP-SUCKING BITCHES OF MINE - WE FLY THROUGH THE NIGHT!

PRANG: Oh, boss! This is the sixty percent that I love.

SHOKTROP: ?


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO:**

After another indeterminable length of time, the robot woke up.

He reactivated his optics. Wow. A ceiling.

Groggily, he blinked, cycling through the visible spectrums. As the room slowly filtered into view he took stock of himself. He was lying on his back. Good place to start. His self-diagnostic helpfully shuffled in with a full report. He paged through it in a daze. Huh. Interesting. During his deactivation he had lost approximately thirty-eight percent of his body mass. That was just a little bit disturbing.

As for everything else...

Temperatures and pressures were testing okay. That was good. Motor functions were operating within sufficient parameters. Even better. He lifted one hand and studied the smooth grey metal plating that now armoured his frame all the way to his fingertips. He wasn't a skeleton any more. Good for him.

Brain module was a bit slow on the self-dio. No problem. The robot let his eyes wander over the room as he waited. He was lying on a berth in a small, darkened medical bay. It was circular in shape, with long windows that overlooked the blue planet below. Stars and milky galaxies glimmered in the distance. Banks of white medical equipment twinkled alongside the row of berths. One such machine lurked at his bedside and plugged cables into ports along his head and neck. It beeped as it monitored his processes. Creepy.

He appeared to be the only patient in the bay at the moment; the other berths lay empty. Behind a partition lined with computers he heard a voice softly humming. A medic, perhaps. Or a nurse. Oh, please let it be a nurse.

As he was debating the wisdom of attempting to disconnect himself from the machine in order to stretch his legs, his module diagnostic chimed. Done. Finally. He lay still and waited for the news. Come on, good news.

He read the report log.

Screams echoed down the lonely medbay hall.

* * *

"You know, I should charge extra for house calls," grumbled Rivet.

Behind him, Redshift flailed his arms in the air.

"What did I tell you?" he hollered. His face contorted with wrath, he loomed over his cowed physicist, who wilted even further into his seat while Rivet gently probed his severed finger with a microlaser. "What do I always tell you about miniature wormholes!"

"Never touch them," mumbled the physicist.

"What's that? I don't think I heard you!"

"Never touch an active wormhole!"

"That's right! That's damn right! And especially one that we're bracing with negative mass cosmic strings instead of exotic matter! Lord almighty! Will you please explain to me why you felt the need to stick your finger into it?!"

"For... science?"

Redshift opened his mouth to yell. Then he looked thoughtful. "I'll accept that."

"I won't!" said Rivet. He shook his laser in the injured physicist's face. "For the love of god, please refrain from extending any part of yourself across the universe, please! Primus knows the very existence of this lab already gives me enough nightmares as it is. I don't need the horror of having to rebuild an Autobot unravelled by cosmic forces on top of that."

In a small voice the physicist said, "Can you replace it, doc?"

"Eh? Your finger? Of course I can. I have a drawer full of spares back in the medbay. Please don't interpret that as encouragement to prod anything else that might be considered remotely dangerous in the future."

Redshift huffed. "You hear that? No more prodding. Prodding is bad. Are we done here?"

"Yeah. I'll take him back to Med and stick a new finger on him and he'll be right as rain."

"Okay, then." Redshift turned around and shooed away the crowd of curious scientists who had sidled over from their workstations to watch the drama unfold. "Sorry, folks. Show's over. Let's all get back to work."

As the grumbling Autobots wandered off, Rivet tucked away his laser and pushed up to his feet. He slung his medkit over his shoulder and crooked a finger at his patient.

"You," he said. "With me. We'll walk and talk. I'm not done telling you off yet."

"Mind if I tag along?" said Redshift. "I'd sorta like to go see that robot we dragged out of orbit."

"Him? Yeah, sure." Rivet checked a watch he wasn't wearing. "It's about time I looked in on him anyway. He's probably on-line by now. I set a timer to reboot his brain module and it should have gone off already."

"A _timer_? What, like an over timer?"

"In a manner of speaking."

They set out for the medbay. Despite his early threat Rivet remained silent as they trooped down the darkened hallway, the injured physicist trailing meekly behind them with his hand clutched to his chest. Through the long silica windows shone a magnificent view of Arae-1, it's curving surface swirling with a layer of cloud.

"So tell me," Rivet finally said as they turned a corner. "Why exactly are your people constructing wormholes in your lab to begin with?"

"They're not big ones," said Redshift. He held up his thumb and forefinger in the shape of a circle. "Just little miniature ones, not even a millimetre wide. We believe they can be used as a means of transmitting data over vast distances, faster and more efficiently than by subspace."

"And for cutting off fingers."

"That was an accident, okay. We tried prying one hole open a little wider than usual this afternoon, and of course as soon as you do that some yutz just has to stick his finger into it."

Looking embarrassed, the physicist coughed.

"I see," said Rivet. "Just how many of these wormholes do you open on a weekly basis?"

"Weekly? Pfft! Try daily! Maybe eighteen?"

"Good god! I did not need to know that. And where exactly do they lead to?"

Redshift kindly patted his shoulder.

"You're probably better off not knowing," he said.

They sailed through the medbay doors, which obligingly swooped open to accommodate them. Rivet took one look around the empty room and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hang on a tick," he said. "Where is my patient?"

Redshift looked over his shoulder. "The strange robot?"

"Yes, the strange robot! Where is he?"

Rivet dashed to the abandoned berth. He picked up the cables lying in slack coils at the head of it. The monitoring machine beeped sadly at him.

"Right here!" he said. "He was lying right here!"

"Well... he's not now."

"Yes, I can see that, thank you! So where is he?"

"I'm pretty sure I have no idea."

Rivet threw the cables aside and pushed away a rolling table piled high with diagnostic equipment. Nothing. He picked up a tray and rather stupidly peered beneath it, as if a missing robot might somehow be hiding on the other side.

"Oh my god," he said as he tossed the tray aside. "This is just what I need right now. You! Fingers! Go find a seat on an empty berth and wait for me. I have to go find my patient."

"Where do we start looking?" said Redshift, while the relieved physicist sidled away.

"The hall outside the medbay first. And then, uh... what's next door? Botany? We'll try their labs. Maybe our guy likes plants. Delirium and plants."

"Wait until Northwest gets wind of this," chuckled Redshift as they loped out the medbay doors. "Ten credits say he'll be displeased."

Rivet moaned and touched the side of his head.

"I'll contact him now," he said. "Better get it over with."

* * *

Northwest leaned back in his office seat and frowned at the datapad in his hand.

Upon it glowed a list of glyphs, detailing the most recent snag list for the engine room. Looked as if the water pumps were on the fritz. Botany had been complaining about poor water pressure in the hydroponics lab for days. That was a shame.

In his other hand he idly swirled a short glass of mixed engex and line-chasers. It glowed a venomous pink colour. The mid-day drink. Good stuff. Probably would coast him through the rest of the day until evening, unless an emergency cropped up.

Right on cue, his internal comm chimed. Northwest signed and threw the datapad down onto his cluttered desk. He was going to have to get different chime tones for that. One for each of the different science departments working in the station. Then he'd know who to answer and who to leave for voice-mail.

He touched the side of his head. "Northwest here. Go ahead."

_"Boss! It's Rivet. I am the worst medic in the world."_

"Is this life-threatening?"

_"Eh? Well, no, not really, but-"_

"Then I trust you to handle it."

Northwest cut off the comm before the medic could protest. He picked up the datapad and sipped his drink. He shrugged. Whatever it was, Rivet could handle it. It would sort itself out.

* * *

It didn't sort itself out.

An hour later, Rivet and Redshift staggered back into the medbay. The medical equipment greeted them with blinking lights and beeps. Rivet collapsed against a berth and clutched at his chest.

"I lost a patient," he said numbly. "I can't believe it. I actually lost a patient. I have never lost a patient before. Spatially, I mean."

"Wonder where he went to," said Redshift. Being much less personally involved in the catastrophe, he picked a laser scalpel off a tray of instruments and shone it around the room like a laser pointer. "Where do you go if you're a drugged up half-dead guy with a brand new body? I don't exactly have a lot of insight into the mindset of that particular hipster crowd."

"How the hell should I know?! Oh god! We checked the halls. We checked Botany. We checked, uh, whatsit, the weather office. Atmospheric Sciences. We checked there. We checked the Bio labs, right? It's all starting to blend together."

"Who are we looking for?" said a voice behind them.

Without looking around, Rivet waved his hand feebly. "A patient. A flier. Tall, grey, with yellow accents."

"You look pretty good for a drugged up half-dead guy," said Redshift. He grinned. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Thanks. It's good to be here."

Rivet leapt off the berth and whirled around. A tall grey flier with yellow accents stood behind him, accompanied by a sheepish looking nurse.

"You!" he yelled. "Where the hell have you been?"

The robot pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Back around the other side of that partition there. This lady was just going over my medical chart with me."

Rivet stared.

"You were in the medbay this whole time?" he growled.

"Yeah. I would have commed you but my radio still seems to be offline. Sorry."

The medic threw up his hands and stormed away.

"Don't mind him," said Redshift as he stepped over to the bemused robot. "We don't tend to get a lot of drama around here, so he's not really equipped to deal with it. Not me, though. Just lay that drama on me. Mmm, boy. I'm Redshift."

"Nice to meet you. I'm- smiling politely."

They shook hands. Rivet stormed back.

"How do you feel?" he yelled. "Everything aligned? No optical glitches? Balance and rigging is all right?"

"I feel pretty good, all things considering," said the robot. He held out one hand and closed it experimentally, watching all of the delicate servos and linkages flex. "You built me this body? I like it."

"Good. Yeah. I did. Just a standard Cybertronian jet-frame. Don't have the resources to make anything fancier. You came in a flier, so I tried to keep you one going out again. I should test your optics and fine motor reactions while you're here and on-line."

The robot playfully waved his hand in front of his yellow optics. "I'm not blind. All good so far. You want me to catch a little rubber ball to test my reflexes? I will catch that rubber ball until the cows come home."

"Don't be a smartass. Still."

Rivet knuckled his hands over his hips and huffed. "Glad to see your mind is sharp. Good. There should be no permanent disorientation."

The robot snapped his fingers.

"About that," he said. "So! I've done a self-diagnosis on my brain module, and it would appear that I appear to be suffering from a bit of _serious brain damage._What is up with that?"

Rivet winced.

"Yeah," he said lamely. He turned and motioned for them to follow. "I was going to bring that up eventually. Step into my office, please. You might want to be sitting down for this one."

* * *

Sitting down didn't help.

Rivet's office was not so much an office as it was a narrow finger off the main bay, partitioned off with white walls and racks of white servers. It sat directly next to a curving glass window, so that if you sat at the desk and looked to the right you saw nothing but the infinity of space and the massive horizon of the blue-green planet below.

It was a spectacular view, and the robot ignored it as he stared at Rivet's monitor in speechless horror.

His mouth hung agape. His optics were round. Rivet stood behind him with his hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, friend," he said. "I know this must come as something of a shock."

The edge of the desk creaked as the robot's hands clenched over it.

"Holy crap," said Redshift. He laid his hand on the back of the seat and leaned forward to get a better view at the digital scan displayed on the monitor. He squinted. "I can't tell if that was burned or etched into you."

"Etched," said Rivet. "I got a good look at the damage when I cracked open his cranial case. Microetched, like with a surgical laser."

The robot opened his mouth. He shut it.

Redshift patted his shoulder. "Wow. That's rough, buddy."

"Get it off me!" said the robot.

Rivet sighed.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said, while Redshift looked at his hand in confusion. "The letters are fine, but they're carved deep. It's not exactly the sort of thing you can just buff out. I'd risk lobotomizing you if I were to go back in and start scraping away at your brain module."

The robot collapsed back in the seat, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He looked dazed.

Rivet eyed him. "On the plus side, the area of your brain those letters are carved into is dedicated mostly to short and long term data storage, rather than any sort of processing region or a node responsible for motor skills. But most of the synapsites in the damaged area are completely severed, cauterised. So while your functional and behavioural sub-routines will likely go unaffected, you might never regain access to your memories again."

"'Mostly'? _'Likely'_will go unaffected?"

"You've got memory problems?" said Redshift curiously.

The robot stared into space. "Uh. Don't remember much. Okay, I don't remember anything."

"Not even your name? Your function?"

"Nothing. Zilch."

"You don't remember your serial number?"

"No."

"Not even how you wound up here?"

"No!"

Rivet and Redshift exchanged glances. "What about Cybertron?"

"Cyberwhat?"

"Like I said," said Rivet grimly. "Short and long term data storage."

"Wow," said Redshift. He pointed a finger down at the top of the robot's head. "So he's basically ignorant now."

"Hey," said the robot.

"That's pretty much it," said Rivet.

"Hey!"

Redshift pointed at the screen.

"I don't suppose those letters mean anything to you, do they?" he said.

"Nope," said the robot gloomily. "Sorry. Not a thing."

Rivet frowned.

Redshift slapped his shoulder. "Hey. What about the way he blipped into orbit? What was that all about?"

"Hmm? Oh, that appears to have been the work of a burnt-out teleportation drive of some sort. Congratulations, friend. Those are pretty rare."

"Lucky me," sighed the robot.

"Does it still work?" said Redshift.

"No. Looks to be completely fried. I don't know what you were using it for, buddy, but it's like a lump of coal now. I was afraid to put too much stress on your neural net by removing either its software or hardware, so I just left it where it is. Doesn't seem to be doing you any harm, at least."

The robot slumped.

Redshift patted his head. "Boy. You're full of glitches. We should call you 'Fritz'."

"Redshift! Don't name the amnesiac."

"No, it's okay," said the robot. He gripped his knees and exhaled. "I don't mind. Fritz. Kind of like it."

"Well, it's yours," said Redshift.

Rivet frowned at him but didn't argue. Instead he reached down and touched a panel on his desk. It silently glided back.

"This was the only thing I found on you that wasn't burned down to slag," he said. He rummaged through the drawer and fished out a slim black data slug. "I haven't tried to read it. Figured it wasn't my place to. Maybe there's something on it that could offer you some insight into your inaccessable memories."

It was the robot's turn to frown as he accepted the slug. He turned it over between his fingers, then looked back over his shoulder at Rivet.

"Do you have a computer around here you could spare?" he said.

"I've got a bunch of field tablets in my lab," said Redshift kindly. "I'll hook you up with one."

"You're cleared to leave the medbay for one hour," said Rivet. He held up a stern finger. "One hour! Then I want you back here so I can run a few more tests. I still need to bring your internal comm online as well. Oh, dammit!"

He let out a yell and bolted for the main lab. "I forgot about Fingers!"

"Let's bail," whispered Redshift to the newly christened Fritz. He jerked his thumb towards the exit.

They sidled away. The office fell silent. Out in space, the blue planet wheeled. Alone and forgotten, the image of the scan continued to glow on the monitor. Pixels traced out three letters, carved into the snapshot of a silvery brain module like thin fibre-optics:

_**Q.S.D.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE:**

[VIP! NEW SCENE:]

[THE CAMERA BLINKS ON. BLACK FINGERS GRIP THE FRAME. IT TURNS AROUND TO SHOW THE INTERIOR OF THE SLAG DISTURBER'S COCKPIT. IT IS STILL DARKLY LIT, THOUGH GLITTERING WITH VIOLET AND ORANGE AVIONIC LIGHTS.]

[IN THE BACKGROUND SHOKTROP AND REDOUT STOMP IN AND OUT OF FRAME AS THEY HURRY ABOUT. PRANG'S FACE DUCKS INTO VIEW.]

PRANG: Welcome back, slagsuckers! This is Prang's log number zero-zero-zero-zero-four. After an excruciating wait, during which there were many zany adventures involving the life-support system, we managed to convince a passing freighter to let us mag-lock onto it so we could catch a ride down the 314 to our final destination: the fuel depot.

[HE STANDS ASIDE AND GESTURES TO THE FORWARD VIEWSCREEN. THROUGH IT A RATHER SHABBY AND POORLY LIT SPACE STATION CAN BE SEEN. IT IS VAGUELY ELLIPTICAL IN SHAPE. SEVERAL OTHER FREIGHTERS AND GALAXY CRUISERS ARE DOCKED THERE ALREADY.]

PRANG: The thrills never stop here, folks.

[HE TURNS THE CAMERA BACK ONTO HIMSELF.]

PRANG: Anyway, now we've just gotta refuel the _Disturber _and then we'll be off to investigate that Theoretical Weapons Development signature that blipped up on scanners four days ago. Astonishingly, it's remained steady all this time instead of disappearing like all the others did. I am astounded. Astounded, and also kind of thirsty. I wonder if they sell engex here. With some of those circuit speeders mixed in. Mmmm. What was I talking about again?

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Right! The Decepticon Justice Division. Shoktrop hopes that if we go to this planet and find what we were sent to retrieve, they'll be willing to overlook the fact that it took us like, _seven hundred years _to get to this point. I remain cautiously optimistic! The fact that I sleep with my gun at night has nothing to do with the DJD or whatever outrageous tortures they might have lined up for us. I mean, seven hundred years, right? Ffft! Seven hundred years. In our lifespan that's like what, a long weekend?

SHOKTROP: [IN THE BACKGROUND] PRANG! SHUT THAT THING OFF AND COME ASSIST US IN DOCKING THE SHIP!

PRANG: [MUTTERING] I can't wait until your job gets outsourced to Autobots.

PRANG: Coming!

[THE CAMERA BUMPS AND SHUTS OFF.]

[THE CAMERA BLIPS BACK ON. IT IS TILTED AT ANY ANGLE NOW, AND BUMPS ABOUT AS PRANG WALKS DOWN A DARK AND DIRTY GANGWAY. HOLOGRAPHIC ADS FLICKER AGAINST THE RUSTY DEPOT WALLS.]

[PRANG'S LAUGHTER IS HEARD OFFSCREEN AS HE POINTS THE CAMERA AT AN ALIEN LOITERING NEAR A GLOWING KIOSK. IT LOOKED A LITTLE LIKE A MANTA RAY WEARING A GIANT MOP.]

PRANG: Ahahaha! Look at that one!

[THE ALIEN OVERHEARS THIS AND GLARES AT HIM.]

REDOUT: Turn that off!

PRANG: Ow!

[THE CAMERA SHUTS OFF.]

[THE CAMERA SWITCHES BACK ON. NOW THE SCENE IS OF A GANTRY OFFICE OVERLOOKING AN EXTERIOR DOCKING BAY. THE SLAG DISTURBER IS VISIBLE THROUGH A GRIMY WINDOW.]

[SHOKTROP AND A ROBOT FUEL ATTENDANT ARGUE IN THE BACKGROUND. PRANG'S VOICE IS HEARD OFFSCREEN.]

PRANG: Welp, it appears that we've hit a bit of a snag in our glorious plan. It turns out Shoktrop isn't willing to beg or barter to get our tanks filled after all. Big surprise. So far the discussion this command decision has provoked has been fairly spirited. Talks are currently underway to negotiate a solution that is satisfactory to all parties involved.

[IN THE BACKGROUND, SHOKTROP GRABS THE ATTENDANT IN A HEADLOCK.]

PRANG: Keep up the good work, boss!

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK AROUND TO HIS FACE.]

PRANG: Once we're all fuelled up we'll head back into space to check up on that TWD signature. Redout seems confident that this time it will prove to be the real deal. I dunno. Seems hard to believe. What has TWD got us chasing around the galaxy anyway? Some kind of crazy super-weapon? One that was stolen maybe? What is the deal with this thing. Oh. Oh, dear.

[THE CAMERA HASTILY TURNS BACK. SHOKTROP HAS JUST THROWN THE ATTENDANT HEAD-FIRST INTO THE WINDOW.]

PRANG: Oh. Oh, boss. Don't do that.

[SHOKTROP POINTS DOWN AT THE ROBOT.]

SHOKTROP: YOU WILL SURRENDER YOUR FUEL TO US WILLINGLY, PUMP JOCKEY!

PRANG: And chips!

SHOKTROP: AND WHAT?

PRANG: You know- energon! I could use some batteries too.

REDOUT: [OFFSCREEN] Hmm. Some charts of this region of space would be of assistance to me as well.

SHOKTROP: Batteries and maps. What else do we need while we're here?

[AN ALARM BEGINS TO WHOOP IN THE BACKGROUND WHILE RED LIGHTS STROBE ON THE WALLS. THE CAMERA PIVOTS TO REVEAL THAT THE ATTENDANT ROBOT HAS JUST CRAWLED TO OVER TO AN EMERGENCY PANEL AND RIPPED IT OPEN.]

PRANG: Oops.

REDOUT: [sighs]

SHOKTROP: GOD DAMN IT.

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK TO PRANG.]

PRANG: Well, it looks like the beg and barter plan has officially fallen through. I suspect this is going to turn into more of an assault and abscond plan in short time.

SHOKTROP: REDOUT! PRANG! MAN THE PUMPS! DESTROY ALL WHO STAND IN OUR WAY! WE FUEL THE SHIP AND RETURN TO THE STARS!

PRANG: Saw that one coming. Later, Prang's Logians! Tune in next time as we establish Decepticon supremacy across the galaxy one gas station at a time.

SHOKTROP: NOW, PRANG!

PRANG: Ugh. Coming!

[THE CAMERA BLIPS OFF.]

* * *

The world spun beneath them.

"I've gotta say," said Fritz through his comm as he dangled his feet over a one hundred mile drop above oblivion. "I'm not entirely sold on the idea of using a magnaclamp to park my butt onto the station. That is not a good place for any sort of clamp to be."

Redshift waved it aside.

"I come out here all the time," he said. "Works like a charm. And face it - you can't beat the view."

That was true. Fritz gripped the untethered tablet on his lap and gazed down at the surface of Arae-1 with something akin to restrained horror. At that orbital altitude the planet was like a great glass marble, its blue oceans and patches of brown and green earth glazed in swirling layers of white cloud, thick cumulus and stratus and high, wispy cirrus.

They sat on the bottom of the station, on a long stut braced with sensory pods and spindly telemetry antenna. It was a spectacular view, so long as you didn't think too hard about which way was up and which way was down. Way down.

Fritz swallowed. "Maybe I could get used to this."

Redshift laughed over the comm. "Ha! You only live once, friend. Seize the day and all that jazz."

"Yes. Seizing is good. I like seizing. I'd sort of like to seize one of those antennas right now, to be honest with you."

"Oh, you're fine. The clamps work well. Besides, we're all fliers here."

"Yeah. Uh. I don't think I'd like to test that theory right at this point in time. Just in case my comm wasn't the only thing Rivet forgot to bring on-line."

They had just left the medbay where, after a barrage of tests and scans, Rivet had grudgingly declared the grey flier cleared for another eight hours. Fritz had wondered at his scepticism, like the medic wasn't fully convinced yet of his own handiwork. Not a great vote of confidence.

Still, he felt fine. A little stiff as the new body settled and his neural net reconnected to all of his peripheral systems, but otherwise quite hale. Aside from the gaping hole in his mind where _something _had once resided, he supposed he felt perfectly functional. Green lights all across the board. Just a little disoriented at the moment thanks to his unusual perch.

Redshift peered over at the tablet clenched in his hands.

"So," he said. "Got anything good off that data slug yet?"

Fritz shook off his daze and looked down at the tablet.

"Mortifyingly, yes," he said.

"Oh? This sounds interesting. Do go on."

"It's loaded with data," said Fritz. He touched a sensor and the screen sprang to life, activated by his field. Then it flipped back and forth, trying to determine its orientation in zero-gravity space. "Like, nearly to full capacity. With huge compilations of temperatures and precipitation rates and upper and surface level winds, pressure charts, lapse rates, freezing levels, humidities, uh... clouds, plasma flares, visibilities, records of frontal activity, etc, etc- all from hundreds of different planets."

"Data? All of it being, like... meteorological data?"

"Yes."

Redshift sniggered. "You were a meteorologist?"

"Apparently."

"A weatherbot?"

"I believe the preferred term is 'atmospheric scientist,'" said Fritz haughtily.

"Ha ha! Okay buddy, if you say so! Wait a minute. You _did _say so! That's something you remember!"

"I know."

Looking mildly distressed, Fritz rubbed between his optics with his thumb. "This stuff, it all clicks somehow. I can't remember my name or where I was constructed, but I can explain to you the developmental stages of a thunderstorm or the difference between an adiabatic wind versus a katabatic wind. That's just great."

Redshift rubbed his chin. "Maybe whoever etched those letters into your brain module did so to deliberately impair certain areas of your memory, but leave others intact enough to function?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I would really like to get my hands on the mech responsible, if that's the case. And then, like. Sock him in the face."

"So does this mean you still have no memory of him?"

"Nope. Not a blip. The last thing I remember is teleporting into the orbit of this planet. I... sorta get the feeling I've been doing a lot of that lately."

"What, teleporting? Seems like it, if the doc is right about your drive being burnt out. You must have done one hell of a tour of the galaxy."

"Ugh. Wish I knew why."

They lapsed into silence and watched the planet slowly turn beneath them.

"A weatherbot," chucked Redshift.

Fritz sighed.

"Hey, don't worry, friend. We're all geeks here. Besides, it could be worse. You could have discovered you were something like a garbage collector. Or, like... a pool bot."

"Oh wow. Now _there's _a function. Specialty: prepping fluffy towels and chasing away the riff-raff."

Redshift laughed.

Fritz eyed him. "What do you do here?"

"Me? I'm head of the Physics Department on the station. We assist the other departments in their attempt to study the planet using their feeble sciences, but our real project has more to do with creating and sustaining bridges in space-time."

"Really? They sent you all the way out here for that?"

"There were incidents back home," admitted Redshift. "Disturbing ones. I can't go into details, and I don't think you'd want to hear them anyway."

Fritz turned the tablet around and around, trying to sort out its orientation.

"Do you know what's really weird?" he said. "All of the data on that slug goes back hundreds of years. Just thousands of entries were made. But the very last entries, maybe covering a two month span? The data they compile is insane. Like, I wasn't going out and scanning puffy clouds or collecting rain samples. The meteorological events I was studying in those last dozen or so entries were _violent_. We're talking catastrophic here - intense meteorological disasters on global scales. There were digital photographs and radar and satellite imagery scans stashed on that slug as well. I'm going to have nightmares of apocalyptic red skies and broiling seas for weeks."

"Huh." Redshift leaned back on his hands and gazed at the ragged tropical hurricane spiralling across the surface of the planet below. "You did come in here burned to slag and ticking with radiation. You must have been studying some heavy stuff, buddy."

"I guess if I'm going to be a meteorologist I might as well console myself with the thought that I was apparently a pretty adventurous one. Or suicidal."

"Yeah, you were a bit of a badass, I guess. Oh! Hey. That reminds me."

Redshift fought against the magnetic pull of the two clamps fastened to his waist and stood up. He dragged Fritz with him, who blinked and clung to the tablet.

"Northwest put forward the idea that you should be allowed to assist us with our study of the planet if you feel so inclined," he said. "And if you passed a security check. Interested in nerding it up here on _Hyades _for a while?"

"I- what? I guess so?"

"Excellent. In that case, let's go introduce you to Turbulence. He's our security officer. Our only security officer, which probably explains a lot of things about him. He just about pitched a fit when Rivet told him you've already been strolling about the station."

Dazed, Fritz allowed himself to be pulled off the strut and floated into space, where he pinwheeled gently.

"Yeah," he said. "I suppose that's bad."

"Guess so! I mean, you were damaged so badly that Rivet couldn't tell if you're an Autobot or a Decepticon when he stripped you down. Not that it's supposed to matter now, what with the war being over. Ha! I'm guessing you have no clue if you're an Autobot anyway, right?"

"What's an Autobot?"

Redout grabbed his ankle and, with a huff of his thrusters, steered them both towards the nearest hatch.

"Oh boy," he said. "Turbulence is going to have a field day with you."

* * *

The security office was a closet.

That is an exaggeration. But it _was_ a narrow room in the station's upper hub, another dark and gloomy space thinly lit by the glowing blue planet just outside it's thick windows. There was a desk at the back with a mounted holographic monitor and heavy panels on the walls that Fritz was almost certain either hid a small armoury or an array of remote-activated autoguns.

He lingered behind Redshift as the physicist sailed through the doors. Disturbing-looking energy shackles and inhibitors clung to the walls.

"Turbulence!" yelled Redshift. "Are you here? I kind of hope he's not here," he added to Fritz in a more conversational tone. "Frankly, he can be a bit of a pill to deal with."

"Why don't you try being the only security officer aboard a station full of scientists and see what kind of a mech that turns you into," griped a voice. Redshift and Fritz both jumped and whirled around in time to see a large black and white flier step through a sliding door at the back of the office. He gave them an ill-tempered look as he hit a panel and sealed the door shut behind him. "Go babysit every single department on board this floating laboratory and report back to me in twenty-four hours. Make note of how fried your synaptites are."

Redshift gestured. "Fritz, this is Turbulence. I believe you've met already."

"We have?"

"I was the other jet who hauled you in after you appeared in orbit with the station," said Turbulence. He trudged towards his desk. "Since then I haven't seen so much as a single rivet on your back."

"The doc has a signed note excusing him for his absence," said Redshift hastily. "You can confirm everything with Rivet if you want. So relax. He's just here for a security check."

"I figured." Turbulence sat down heavily behind his monitor and jabbed a finger at an empty seat. "You. Park it."

Fritz parked it.

And was scanned. Repeatedly. Always with the scanning. He wondered if it was just his imagination or if his optics really were beginning to fritz when the red beam of the hand-held scanner seared over the back of his head.

"No weapons systems," said the security officer. He eyed the imagery on his monitor and spoke in a flat voice. "None at all."

"You couldn't figure that out just from looking at me?" said Fritz. He kept his hands in the air like a hostage.

"Not if they're integrated, smartass. I once incarcerated a mech whose arm turned into a rail gun. Figure that one out. Why aren't you pinging as either an Autobot or a Decepticon?"

"Scan his brain module!" said Redshift. He grabbed the top of Fritz's head. "That'll explain everything. Go on, try it. It's a real horrorshow."

Turbulence grunted. "No need. I see Rivet's already sent me a copy of his medical file. Just downloaded it. Seems like somebody went out of their way to make you as unidentifiable as they could."

"So I've been told," said Fritz.

"Will you put your hands down? I'm not going to shoot you. I'm giving you basic access to the station. That's _basic _access, so don't get too excited. It won't get you everywhere, but a scientist willing to vouch for you should be able to get you between any of the labs that aren't explicitly designated as advisory or restricted."

"And that's it? I don't get a badge or a card or anything?"

"I've already plugged your spark signature into the security system. What, you want a sticker too, with an expiry date on it? Come back when you fully register as an Autobot and we'll talk."

Redshift hauled Fritz from his seat. "Good enough for me! Let's roll, Brains."

"Redshift!"

The security officer's voice thundered across the room as they beat an exit towards the door. Both mechs paused and looked back.

Turbulence glared at them. "Don't go taking him into any areas he shouldn't be trespassing in, or I will come down on you like the fist of Primus."

"Oh, come on. Don't be paranoid. He's completely clueless."

"Hey," said Fritz.

"And besides," said Redshift. "He's a _meteorologist_. What harm can he possibly do?"

* * *

[VIP! THE CAMERA SWITCHES ON.]

[THE SCENE IS NOW BACK TO THE COCKPIT INTERIOR OF THE SLAG DISTURBER. SHOKTROP LOUNGES IN THE COMMAND SEAT WHILE PRANG SITS FORWARD AT THE HELM. STARS BLUR PAST THE VIEWSCREEN.]

[PRANG HAS HIS HANDS RAISED. HE MAKES A SHOW-GIRLY WAVE WITH THEM AS HE SINGS.]

PRANG: Back in space, back in space! Gotta TWD signature to chase! Gonna find us a super-weapon and kill all the scrags who stole it! Kill! Blam! Kill! Blam! Kill! Blam! Finger-guns!

[REDOUT SPEAKS OFFSCREEN.]

REDOUT: Huh. This _is_ a nice camera. Whoops.

[THE CAMERA TUMBLES TO THE FLOOR. BLIP! ALL GOES BLACK.]


End file.
